Stereotypical Lily, How She Came To Love Potter
by Alex the Anachronistic
Summary: MRDR era. This is a rather silly little story with what could be considered a surprising ending. Hercule Poirot is Dumbledore's new plaything at Hogwarts, and Lily has conflicting feelings about James. Severus Snape falls in a fountain. LJ 7th year. Short


Poirot had been a common sight for the past two years around Hogwarts Castle, though not many knew why

_Welcome to my fanfiction, enjoy this rather silly ride. Have a good day, remember that I'm not just kidding when I say that I'm not J.K. Rated for the word btch which comes in once. And 'bloody'. Okay, have fun! This is highly improbable at best, but it's for fun. Totally._

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Poirot had been a common sight for the past two years around Hogwarts Castle, though not many knew why. He had, after all, been originally called upon to solve the Mysterious Case of the Murdered Casylholl, one of the last of its species, and he had solved it—though why he cared to stay on, no one bothered to think. Those few who were aware of the precise reason were limited to two: Poirot and Dumbledore. This is because they were the only ones directly involved, using the fullest sense of the word. McGonagall suspected something between them; after all, the men spent most of the day together, plus most of the night. However, out of prudishness or uncertainty she never divulged anything to the other staff, and no one else bothered to question the eccentric gentleman guest. The Headmaster never was selfish in any way for any reason, or so they thought, so why should there be anything remarkable in the strange 'friend' from the Continent?

In any case, the men went for a stroll on the grounds one day. The two omniscient minds were busy practicing reading each other's thoughts without legilimency when, suddenly, Lily Evans—a 7th year—came stereotypically barreling out of some obscure nook to them.

"Miss Evans!"

She was in tears.

"Oh, excuse me headmaster, Monsieur!" she exclaimed, wiping her face with her sleeve frenziedly as she began to tear away from the scene.

"Mademoiselle is in distress?" queried the Belgian gallantly, drawing a handkerchief to wipe the slobby wetness from the girl's pale cheeks.

"Oh, please, leave me alone!" She made another stereotypically half-hearted attempt to disengage herself from the presence of the two gentlemen, but each in unison took one or another of her arms to thoroughly plant her before them.

"Mhm, you said you were in distress, _non_?" asked Poirot, cool but gentle. "It is my little business in life to aid in such predicaments. Come, tell all to Papa Poirot."

Lily paid a hasty glance towards Dumbledore, who dropped her hand and nodded. "Hercule is rather good with these things, Miss Evans. It would be highly impolite to refuse him, if nothing else. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to pilfer a handful of lemon drops from that kindly second-year, Frederick Barbles, who's sitting over there. I've been forming an unprecedented predilection to them of late."

So saying, the headmaster—for lack of a better word—toddled off to fetch his quarry.

Meanwhile, Poirot gestured to a handy bench under a nearby elm tree, and Lily joined him in its sweet recline.

"Ah, but my feet, they so grieve me these days. If I did not have such sentimental joys from the shine of the patent-leather, I should cast them aside and never wear them again!" mused Poirot, but he turned his attention again to Lily. "So, mademoiselle, pray confide. What is it that troubles you?"

"Well," sniffed Lily, stereotypically hesitant about divulging her deepest problems to the squeakily-immaculate Continental with the garishly-dyed moustache, but she saw that his eyes were soft and kindly. Her hesitation became less genuine and more perfunctory in a single glance. "Erm, well," she said again, "It's not so much, really. It's just James Potter."

"Ah!" exclaimed Poirot, who had observed the aforementioned young man quite a bit over the course of his stay at Hogwarts castle, "The 'insufferable toe-rag', as you do often enjoy to call him?"

"Yes," replied Lily quietly, somewhat stereotypically ashamed of the comment. "I suppose you've heard my arguments with him," she broached.

"Ah—only the louder ones," admitted Poirot tactfully, "But I seem to understand the position you take to him quite well. For years he has claimed his constant _amour_ towards you, his unending affections_, non_? But always, with the truest valiance and the most wrathful anger, you turn him down! He is, to you, the most insignificant of people! He is, as you declared in your great confrontation last month, 'even worse than Severus'—your mutual worst enemy. Ah, but you have no idea what such cruel words might do to a heart weaker than his!"

Lily's hands went from wringing the handkerchief meekly to stereotypically cover her face. "You make me out to be absolutely horrible!" she choked, emotions spilling in various mediums from her eyes, her nose, and her vocal chords. "Monsieur Por-row, am I really so mean?"

"Mean? Ah, but I do not think of you as mean, _non_, _mon cherie,_ not at all!" replied Poirot quickly. "I make but to say that your James Potter would think so—no, indeed, I should soon slit my throat with a butter-knife before I should call a dear little one as you 'mean'."

"But that's just the problem!" exclaimed Lily desperately. "I—well, he's stopped asking me to marry him!"

"But that is just what you want, _n'est pas_?"

"I—I thought so," she replied as bitterly as she could affect, "Though now I feel that I've really wounded him. I never meant to do that, Monsieur, I meant to make him stop bothering me. But now he's stopped talking to me altogether and I feel—I feel . . ."

She broke off, puzzled at her own internal revelation.

"What exactly do you feel, mademoiselle?" His voice was soft, encouraging, and the key to unlocking her innermost depths.

"I don't understand what I feel," Lily attempted to explain.

"Ah, but we simply must concern ourselves with the little grey cells, to see how they are so fooled in their connections to the heart," observed Poirot gently. "Come, what does your heart truly hide that is attempting to make its way into your good but stubborn brain?"

The message released itself in the properly enthusiastic rush of gushing, rushing words: "I'm in love with James Potter and I don't bloody know what to do about it!"

This proclamation made her gasp, and her hand flew to her mouth in a stereotypically astonished expression. So much, really, was stereotypical about Lily that there's no point in noting the fact any more.

"What can I do, Monsieur Por-row?" asked Lily timidly with a shiver. "I—I can't get over the idea. My friends have joked about this for years, but I never imagined—never imagined there might be anything _in_ it."

"I say you should do this," Poirot suggested, and bent forward to whisper something in her ear. "It should be perfect, unless he is currently involved with someone besides yourself," he encouraged her.

"Well, my friend Remus told me that he's just been dumped by that bitch Cecilia from Ravenclaw. I'll go now," replied Lily, a sparkle coming into her green eyes.

"What a beautiful girl, my grand-niece," muttered Poirot darkly as the girl trotted gaily away to find Potter.

"You're a marvel, Poirot, a true marvel," remonstrated Dumbledore, emerging from behind a plant, unnoticed by the retreating figure. "But you say that's your grand-niece?"

"So I have read," admitted Poirot, "Though, I'm sure, she never would like to know the fact. I believe I shall protect the knowledge from her—to see such a brittle man as me as a relation, especially overseeing her at her school—ah, that would not be a pretty scene to put upon stage."

"Still, you were brilliant. I couldn't have done a better job of it myself," replied Dumbledore firmly, taking a seat next to the other man. Their hands, almost playfully, entertained.

"Eh bien, but I do not tell them anything that they themselves do not already know. They may not think they know it—but they do know it. It is like approaching an artist with the frustratement over a picture, when they tear at their hair like a wild beast, trying to solve the mystery: _what is this picture missing? _Poirot comes to them and suggests: _try a little blue in the corner, for balance and symmetry_. For Poirot loves symmetry to an astonishing degree, no? And then, the artist complies, and to their amazement it is exactly as they need. But they should not be so surprised, for Poirot—he is always right. Infallibly, he is right. When their portrait is accepted into the National Gallery, they give credit to Poirot, for having been the inspiration to finish the picture and make it a masterpiece, they say. But I smile, for it was not Poirot who painted the picture, it was the artist!" His smile dimmed a bit, though, as he drew his hand away from Dumbledore's. "You have gotten a bit sticky, _non_?"

Dumbledore grinned, and a protruding tongue from his mouth displayed a collection of lemon drops in varying states of dissolution.

"Sometimes, _mon ami_, you are the most disgusting of friends," Poirot simpered, drawing forth a silk handkerchief. "_Eh bien_, you see now, I go to the fountain over there to rid my fingers of the devilish sugar."

Dumbledore merely laughed, folding one leg over the other as Poirot meandered across the lawn to the aforementioned fountain.

The retired detective was highly startled when a black bat-like figure leaped in front of him, quite readily out of a tree.

"Ah, it is Monsieur Severus, _n'est pas_?"

The young man scowled blankly and dispassionately. "Yes, it is. And I assume I am addressing Dumbledore's chief night-pet, _n'est pas_?" he rudely imitated. Poirot, though ruffled with the startling appearance of the teenager, paid no heed to the blatant allusion.

"Ah, but you must be quite the _petit voyageur_, having become so accomplished at leaping from tree to tree like a monkey!"

"That's merely coincidence," spat Severus menacingly. He seemed to be waiting for Poirot to make the next move, however, so the old man did.

"You like to scare, do you not?" questioned Poirot. "You enjoy to scare your friends with your skills and knowledge of the dark arts. You enjoy to scare your classmates away, prevent them from being your friends, by your appearance and the way you carry yourself. You like to scare the innocent young girls—"

"Depends on the girl," muttered Severus, probably only meaning for himself to hear, but Poirot was quick on the upbeat.

"—But you scared Lily Evans, and now she does not like you."

The words settled in the cold uneasily. Then the boy lashed out with a whip of anger.

"I have a fair inkling of what you told her, _monsieur_. I saw you have a conversation with her, and then she went and tackled James Potter in the most brilliant snogging session a man could dream of. I could almost hear them from fifty feet away, though I could fairly clearly _see _them. Coincidence? Come now, _monsieur_, I'm no fool."

"Neither am I, _Monsieur_ Severus."

Poirot then nonchalantly stepped forward and stooped to wet his handkerchief in the fountain, which was right at hand. In a sudden rush, Severus leaped forward, in attempt to—who knows? However, the result of the proceedings was that Poirot stepped away, quick as a cat even with his age, and Severus somehow ended up in the fountain.

Poirot merely stayed to watch for a moment, to make sure the boy had not ended up with a concussion, then walked away, wiping his hands gingerly. "He may like to scare," he said aloud, carefully, as though to himself, "But it is more likely that he is even more scared than he could ever make anyone else. That one, he is terrified of life, and of love."

Splash. A handful of water flew through the air and cascaded onto Poirot's freshly-pressed cream suit.

"Bloody Frenchie!" exclaimed Snape hoarsely.

"Bloody _Belgian_, if you please," quipped Poirot back, paying no mind to the black eyes that bored into the back of his skull—black eyes that were brimming with unseen tears.

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_A highly unlikely scenario, but hey. That's what fanfiction is for. Just had to do this. Hope you enjoyed. Leave a review._


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